Grey Eyes
by nodeductions
Summary: An unnamed district ten tribute contemplates life and death in the Hunger Games. Expect no happy endings here, folks.


My throat is dry, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. Dehydration. I won't survive for long at this rate.

My stomach aches. Hunger.

_Oh god, don't let me die like this. Make it quick._

I'm used to hunger, but not like this. This is hunger mixed with fear and dread. I have survived three days of the Hunger Games, how many more can I possibly survive? The thirst will kill me soon anyway. I estimate that I will be dead by morning.

I have no weapons, no way of defending myself. I'm fast, and small. I guess that's how I'm still alive and breathing. It's certainly not good fortune. I don't stand a chance of winning.

Even if the Hunger Games never called for me, I would have been lucky to make it to sixteen. So many ways to die in District Ten, especially if you were four foot eleven and ninety pounds like me. No physical strength to speak (how could I be, when I ate only small portions of the worst cuts of meat). A weak immune system. Tetanus. Tuberculosis. Pox. Flu. Be married off young and die in childbirth. Beaten to death for letting a fox get the hens. Melanoma from working in the sun. Malnutrition. Rabies. No point wasting medication on somebody like me, after all.

_Maybe it's mercy, letting me die here. _

I knew I was going to die in the Hunger Games. Inevitable. I fed my family with tesserae (all six of us) since I was twelve years old. It's almost funny; we farm chicken and goats for a living, but don't get to see the eggs, milk or meat. We have to sell the produce to the Capitol to pay the Capitol for the rent. Suffer for the right to suffer.

_What will they do, now that they can't use me to get grain and oil? _

No matter. I would have been sold away soon anyway to work on someone else's farm and raise their children (my children) until my body gives out. I guess they will use my little sister next, she turns 12 next month. It's a hard life in District Ten, especially for a woman. If I had been born a boy, I would have been worked to an inch of my life as well but I'd be allowed to eat well.

When I was six I stole one of the eggs my mother had boiled for my brothers and father, and tucked it into my coat. I peeled the shell of the egg away, slowly and deliberately as I watched the goats sleep. I marvelled at each little crack that formed in the shell. I relished the rubbery texture of the white of the egg, nibbling away until there was nothing left of it but the yolk. By then I was even hungrier and swallowed the yolk almost whole. It was the most amazing thing I had ever tasted. Compared to my meagre rations of grains (rice, bread, oats), the egg is luxurious. Unfortunately, I put the little pieces of shell in my pocket, so mother knew it was me who stole the egg. Naturally, my father beat me.

As I curl my body behind the leafy foliage of a shrub (not sure what kind, as far as I'm concerned a shrub is a shrub) I think about the egg. I consider it a fine one to remember as I await death. After I was sent to bed, my mother came in and comforted me. I wonder if she's watching, waiting to see if I have died yet.

_I won't be long now, mother. _

Night falls in the arena. Nobody has come my way for hours. I walk. I don't know what I'm walking for, just that I can't handle staying still any longer. It's better to die on my own terms. Or at least die quickly.

I walk past a stream.

_Maybe I can drink from it. _

I kneel by the water; scoop some up in my hands. It stings my hands. I think it's some kind of acidic solution. I contemplate drinking it anyway, but it would be a painful death, judging by the raw skin on my palms. I'm too scared to die that way. I'm a coward. I want it to be fast.

I keep walking, along the curve of the stream. Sure enough, I see the body of the last tribute to try and drink from the stream. Her hands are burned worse than mine. Her lips and mouth corroded away. I shudder. She must have been even more desperate than I was for water.

I think about the reaping. I knew I was going to die the moment they called my name. I remember my mother's tanned face turning a shade paler, and her wrinkled face screwing up. I think about her grey eyes welling up with tears. She never spoke a word to me before I was whisked away to the Capitol.

My thoughts are interrupted by the feeling of a hand on my shoulder.

"She was from my district you know."

The voice comes from a tall, athletic looking boy with sandy brown hair. A career tribute possibly. But can't be, he looks too sad. A career tribute would be stronger than this. There's no time for mourning in the Hunger Games.

"I... I thought that I could handle this." He says, "Her name was Pearl."

A fanciful name like that, must be District One. I stare at him, too afraid to move or even speak. His eyes are grey and now they're welling up with tears. His skin pale but his face is flushed red. I don't understand. Why isn't he killing me yet?

"You and I, we're the last ones left". He's holding a knife. "It's nothing personal, I just don't want to die." 

"I understand," I say, "But can you do one thing for me?"

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Can you stay with me? Until the end? I don't want to die alone."

He nods, and then steps closer. For a career tribute, he is not careful with the blade. His hand is shaking.

_How many lives has he taken?_

The District One tribute puts his arms around me, as if we're lovers and plunges his knife into my stomach. I look down and see blood. I crumple to the ground. He never lets go of me. It takes far too long for the knife to kill me, he mustn't have hit any major arteries. But he never lets go. He strokes my hair, and starts to talk. I'm not sure what he says, because the world is fading around me. I'm reminded of being in my mother's embrace, those grey eyes lulling me to sleep.


End file.
